


Curiosity

by SandwichesYumYum



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Complete, For RoseHeart and Nurdles, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:16:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3661836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichesYumYum/pseuds/SandwichesYumYum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth friendship. From a different point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoseHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHeart/gifts), [Nurdles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nurdles/gifts).



> This is unbetaed, as it is a birthday gift for the two people who normally fulfill that particular role for me. And also happen to have the same birthday. RoseHeart and Nurdles. You are extraordinary and talented people who mean a great deal to me. Your patience and kindness is endless and I can never thank you enough for your friendship. I hope that today is full of joy for you both.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own it not.

 

**Curiosity**

 

“You can understand my curiosity, of course.” A few feet from him, refined features twitch as the Kingslayer stares into the small camp fire beside which they are sitting. He pauses before looking up, and when he does his face is a bland mask, giving nothing away. There will be no obvious answers here, tonight.

“Oh, I understand it, Qyburn, but I have no intention of enlightening you further,” he says. “Your thirst for knowledge will have to go unquenched this time, I’m afraid.”

“What does he want to know?” The words sound hard as the woman speaking them steps around from behind a nearby tree and back into view. It is fair that she should seem so, Qyburn reasons, given the nature of his unwanted examination of her at Harrenhal; the result having rendered the mercurial friendship between these unusual travelling companions more interesting than less, even if the lady herself is of little value in the political games currently scouring Westeros.

He watches Ser Jaime drag his gaze quite deliberately up and down the fascinatingly large form of the Maid of Tarth. If Qyburn’s own ruminations are limited to wondering at the cause of her prodigious size, he is yet to determine what in her has captured this particular Lannister’s attention so completely. The way he has been driving their party to cover every possible mile to the capital with the greatest speed lends much in the way of credence to the rumours connecting him unnaturally with his sister, yet it cannot be denied that there is some mutual esteem to be found here. He had seen it in the care shown by the lady in the bathhouse and there can be no doubt that the Kingslayer was desperate to find her after their hasty ride back to a bear pit and a howling mass of soldiers.

What exists between the two is briefly obscured as the knight’s careful inspection of her newly acquired clothing, dark, spare and of men, turns into a feral smile. “Wench, that is better. That hideous dress you were wearing was starting to pain my eyes, truly.”

If she is offended, she does not tell it, instead scowling down at the one who was once her captive. “So says the man in sackcloth.”

Lannister shrugs, merely straightening the edge of the rags covering his chest. “A hero’s garb, I think you’ll find.”

Brienne of Tarth grunts and she drops solidly to the ground next to her recent rescuer, resting her back against the same fallen log. “A talkative one, who is trying to change the subject at hand.” She extends a blunt finger, jabbing it in Qyburn’s direction. “What does he want?”

Qyburn decides to tell her himself, for he has come to find her reactions to be far more revealing than those of her friend. “My Lady, Ser Jaime told me, before our...unexpected return to Harrenhal, that he once saved the population of King’s Landing.”

Her head whips around to the man at her side, her mouth dropping open and her voice, when it comes, coloured with shock. “You _told_ him?”

“Not _everything_ ,” she is swiftly reassured, though it is not enough to stop her from looking back across the fire at Qyburn with a deep wariness.

“Indeed, he did not,” Qyburn confirms, now sure that the knowledge Ser Jaime Lannister had somewhat carelessly claimed as part of his past is shared by at least one other. “I had thought he was referring to his leading an army at first. But then, I could not recall his having done so there. Not with any success.”

The barb hits, but has little effect. “Well, that’s a resounding disaster of a fanfare and one which could hurt.” The Kingslayer seems to have more types of smile than there are clouds in a winter sky, and his is turning cold. “Were it not from an unchained Maester.”

The Kingslayer’s disdain for his methods has been made all too plain, yet it is meaningless to Qyburn. And it is obvious that this journey, where his talents with tinctures and bandages are still needed, might be his only chance of finding out anything which may prove of use to him in the capital. So he continues. “In truth, I can only think of only one event of note in your history to which you might be referring.”

“‘Only one event of note’,” Ser Jaime says, chuckling briefly up at the Maid of Tarth before swinging his attention back across to Qyburn, narrowed and piercing. “Does the praise never stop?”

Qyburn is undeterred. “Yet no matter how hard I try, I cannot quite discern how the killing of a single man, even if that man were a king, could save every living soul in a city. And I did get the impression that you were certain that was the absolute truth, Ser.”

The Kingslayer leans forward, as if about to share a confidence, but does nothing of the sort. “If you think I will tell you anything more, Qyburn, you are a fool. I can thank you for the lending of your skills, but I cannot trust you.”

_And that is why you refused milk of the poppy._

Qyburn had suspected as much, as he treated the weeping stump that had come so close to making a shade of Jaime Lannister. The cutting away of dead flesh was agonising for the man, but even after he woke from a bout of unconsciousness brought on by pain alone, he had grimly bid Qyburn to continue until his labours were done. He did not want his mind fogged or his tongue loosened then. And as he peers across the small fire, Qyburn can see that neither the Lord or the Lady in front of him are tempted to let their tongues dance needlessly now. It may be that one is a beast of woman and the other a beauty of a man, yet Qyburn is fast coming to believe that they have as much in common inwardly as they lack to the outside world.

For now, he might as well be trying to wring information from the Wall, for all of the give in either of them. He takes one final look at the pair, one stubborn and one cold, and neither set to impart anything. He rises to his feet and bows his head. “Then I think it is time for me to fetch my blankets. Lord Commander. My Lady.”

He makes for the horses, but is only few steps into the darkness when one of them speaks, bringing him to a sudden stillness. He steps behind a large bush and peeks through the prickly, evergreen foliage whilst the Maid of Tarth whispers roughly, with intense concern. “You are right. He cannot be trusted, Jaime. He is very clever and could be dangerous.”

“I know.” Then there is a change which can almost be felt in the air and the Kingslayer’s voice softens, layered with care, moulded into something close to unrecognisable to Qyburn. “Brienne. Did he harm you?”

The Maid of Tarth gasps in open horror at Ser Jaime knowing anything of her ordeal. She looks away and works her jaw silently, her features covered in needless shame.

All the while Qyburn holds his breath, knowing that, in these moments, his very life is hanging on the words of another. Were it not for the Queen, absent from this place but somehow here nonetheless, he might think the constant bickering the Kingslayer particularly enjoys indulging in no more than the pulling of a girl’s braids to gain her attention.

It makes no difference. What these two are to each other, or whatever they could become, there is no question that a man who would throw himself into the path of a bear for a woman holds her in the highest regard. Qyburn remembers a lone hand, fingers wrapped about his throat and does not doubt for a heartbeat that a left hand will indeed serve just as well in bringing about his death as its former partner, should the wrong word be uttered.

It does not come to pass, the Maid of Tarth collecting herself and shaking her head sombrely, offering the truth. “No. He did not.” Their gazes catch and hold as if speaking, but then the Kingslayer nods, apparently satisfied with what he sees. The Lady Brienne, however, taps his shoulder as soon as he looks away, her face stern. “But you should have said nothing to him if you wish your actions to remain unknown, Jaime. He could work it out.”

The Kingslayer lets out a groan. “Will you stop pestering me about it? And pass me some of that bread.” He waves his left hand loosely in the general direction of the hot stones around the fire where the last flat bread is beginning to burn.

“As you wish, even if it is mine,” the lady mutters, though as is the way with this pair, the mood is lightening with a mystifying haste. She gingerly picks up the bread by an edge and starts to flip it from one hand to the other to cool it. “But you may want to attend to your skills as a beggar, Ser. They beggar belief.”

“Brienne of Tarth, did you just attempt a jest?” the Kingslayer laughs. “You did, did you not?” He tilts his face to the side, trying to see hers, though she remains stoically earnest. “Come now, wench, your face will not break if you smile. Though some might say -”

“One more word, Lannister.” The warning sounds dreadful, her words heavy as lead.

As would appear to be usual in such cases, if the last few days have shown it faithfully, the Kingslayer promptly ignores this threat from his companion. “Well, that’s a fine way to treat your saviour. Or have you forgotten the bear, already? Big thing in a pit, shambled around much like you, but had more hair and bigger claws.”

Brienne of Tarth glances up at the sky with a gentle moan, as if making a wish for peace that she knows will go unheard. “It was but five days ago, Jaime.” She tears the bread in two and places one of the pieces gently into a waiting hand. “And no, I haven’t forgotten.” Only now does she smile, a flicker of a thing on her thick lips, which fades into a mild grimace. “Not that you would let me.”

“Would you deny an old, broken knight the chance to glory in his only honourable act?” The Kingslayer bites happily into the bread and begins to chew.

“Do not spin that lie for my sake, Ser. I happen to be the only one who knows it not to be true.” These words, spoken with no more or less of the seriousness which the lady carries at all times, brings the curious sight of a true smile from Ser Jaime Lannister, one lacking any hint of deception. Qyburn cannot tell if it is returned, for they are now looking directly at each other.

There is a pause, but then the Kingslayer suddenly raises his voice. “It is a good thing I do not rely on your skills as a baker, wench.” He lifts his hand between them. “This is awful.”

For a moment the Maid of Tarth does not react, but then she plucks the rest of the bread from his fingers, folds it and shoves it into his mouth. “Just eat, Ser Jaime.”

Then they sit back in prolonged silence and Qyburn resumes his movement as quietly as he can, now unsure of his complete success in hiding. The Lady Brienne’s breads are, in fact, passably good and even when they are being eaten, at least one of them has a fondness for talk that appears impossible to overcome.

Qyburn will likely find out when he comes back, though he has no further fear of a blade slipping into his ribs this night. The lady has cleared him of the worst excesses of the wretches at Harrenhal and his skills are needed yet on this journey. He nonetheless decides to use caution, delaying his return to that small fire until later, when he thinks they may be resting by it, two sides of a square, their heads settled close enough that they can talk if they have the need.

They make for a strange pair. Certainly they have a bond of friendship, though how long-lived it may end up being is in doubt with the whole world tumbling into turmoil. Besides her notable size, the Maid of Tarth’s worth, in his eyes, only extends to this peculiar friendship and any valuable information Qyburn can glean from it as they travel. The Kingslayer has lost the ability to soldier, so his importance will be markedly lessened, though he is still, of course, a Lannister. And there are Lannisters who remain more powerful than this one-handed and reviled knight can ever hope to be again, eldest son of Lord Tywin or not. If Qyburn is to be of no use to the Kingslayer once he is returned to the capital, he may yet find others in that great family more willing to consider his services.

So he will watch, listen, and do everything he can to make sure the two wounded, former prisoners get back to King’s Landing. Alive. For that vast city is where his future hopes reside.


End file.
